On The Ice, In The Sea
by FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: The East Empire Trading Co. slurped her up from the freeze, brought her to the very thing she'd craved to see. Skyrim was cold, but he looked warm and like a sprout towards the sun, she was drawn out...for good or wrong. Human!DB/Male!Orc. Rated M.
1. I Bid You Hello Fine Male

And here I be once again. The weather here has not been kind and being sick left me lots of time to play video games, read and watch old movies...also write this. I've got more of it typed up, up to chapter three or four I think, which I believe is best since I tend to hop from one plot to the next and loose my spark at times.

I've been reading pretty much all of Zoop's work (she's got a great voice for lore no matter what fandom she writes for, which I love) and all her stories involve orcs of some caliber. So I got the itch (the good kind) and wrote this. It's a bit unconventional, at least I hope, but I think it's going to be interesting at the very least.

I also drew up my characters (since I own a copy of Skyrim on the 360 and can't take those pretty crisp snapshots...) I'll have a link for them in my profile if you'd like a visual.

Of course, as with all my stories, beware of violence, language and sexual content. It's been labeled M for a reason.

And sadly, No, I do not own Bethesda, just these characters and their personalities.

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><p><em>" 'But she was a daughter of mine by her own habits. My mourning here is no less than your own, my outrage no less great.' - Sheogorath, 16 Accords of Madness: Malacath's Tale"<em>

_The season; particularly cold. The day; darker than some summer evenings. The steaming breath; dying._

_Mother couldn't prepare her for the sensation of killing a stag, so why would a filthy Imperial dog have been any different. Mixing, warring emotions like salt water flowing under fresh water ran below her skin; through her veins. Hate that wasn't her own, but taught and real enough as anything else, seemed to wane and roll like the tide as the struggling breathing at her bare feet grew soft and weak._

_Blood clogged whimpers fell into the ground; her arrow frill moving as the thief tried to crawl on her side, away from death. She'd hit a lung, barely missing the heart, and so she'd have to wait and watch as the moment turned long in the cold breeze while this dishonorable bitch went to whatever god she had left – if she had one at all. The hate started to leak out of her pores as sweat grew cold down her face, bringing with it a sense of panic._

_Even now, only on her first season of adult-hood, she inhaled the rich scent of blood as it poured out the woman's mouth, and knew then that there would be many more like her to come; more thieving, useless, murdering scoundrels to slaughter if she was to protect what was hers and Mother. This guilt didn't have a place in her gut, yet it assaulted her until a pain grew under her ribs, mimicking where she'd pierced the Imperial swine._

_The pain was in her head, this she knew, but it mattered little. The feeling grew as the woman's eyes fluttered deliriously. Phantom pain dulled to leave a hole occupied with nausea as the Imperial shuddered and passed on. Dry eyes stared past the stubborn crisps of grass where her toes curled into the permafrost brewing and still she couldn't say a thing._

_The freeze in the air was already turning her lifeless eyes into off-blue dimples, amidst a yellowing white. What was done now? Did she leave the body to the wolves who howled ravenously in the distance? - or would Malacath require she bury her kill as if it'd not been killed like an animal?_

_Or...did she eat her? Mother may not know if she wasn't told._

_A cacophony of beastly calls came from the southern mountain side and further up at the north where the stinking cave lay cut into the cliff. The wolves were approaching fast, and a decision couldn't wait. The animals would tear her apart if they caught her carrying a fresh body...and the hard ground underneath would be too frozen to dig even the shallowest of graves._

_Howls and clipped yelps helped speed her decision, and when the first sounds of paws crunched upon the ground she turned and sped off, leaving the dead Imperial to feed the forest as was best. The wolves had to eat like the rest of them, and better it be one already dead than her...besides, the rabbit slung over her hip would do fine until Mother returned home, and then she'd tell her of her kill. Perhaps, she would be proud she had defended herself._

_Maybe this was the trial that would finally grant her her tusks..._

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><p>Night fell early at the northern shores, and the ink of the sea only made the darkness that much more devoid. Waves tossed themselves along the bow, but their strength was immeasurable against the design and size of the ship; made to handle the tribulations of the water as well as any warrior to the defense of an opposing blade.<p>

It was luck that landed her on the vessel, and perhaps a little of whatever charm she carried about herself, which was little on a warm day, but on a cold night like this? - it was null. She could still feel the creeping ice of that berg around her ankles; coiling like an arm of Hermaeus Mora.

A boat filled with men would have shunned a weaker woman into pliancy, but even if they knew not of who she was, she could provide a demonstration if they needed...if they insisted. As it were, all it took was a cold stare at whom ever grew too close and they'd left her to the port side of the ship to her lonesome – just how she preferred it. They may have been her rescuers this time, but she had saved her fair share of men and women...this was her reward when she needed it most. There would be no thank you.

She watched, as the wind ripped at her cropped hair, while the iceberg she'd lain wounded on grew smaller against the black of the water. The coast passed by as quick as a horse could carry her upon land – it's pebbled sands sloshed with weak ice as the waves crashed rhythmically.

Skyrim would always be beautiful in it's opposing light than High Rock. The eastern lands were never far from the land of the Nords, but their mountains seemed to provide a cupped-hand of odd weather, burly inhabitants, and fresh smells. Much like a cave, this place seemed cut off from much of Nirn despite it's neighboring borders attempting to comes inside. Though...it seemed near funny now – after this time – that the Imperials were the ones annoyed at her presence in the land of the Nords, much more than the burly men themselves had been.

"You!"

It wasn't her name, but being the only one at the pulpit of the ship she decidedly turned her head; one eye wincing at a strong gust while the other caught the sharp, tall build of a man, "Woman. Captain wants to ask you your business. Come."

She didn't bother looking at him fully, or nodding for that matter. The captain could brace the cold if he wished to ask what her plans be, but she wasn't about to follow some sailor through the bowls of the ship just to answer a simple, and unwarranted question while her feet still thawed.

Silence followed long enough that she forgot about the man behind her – the stars bunched and colored with green and pink lights took her mind from even the cold itself. These nights were deadly when alone and watching a camp for one - too distracting, but here on the relative safety of the shipping vessel she let her body lax against the pulpit and stare wantonly at the sky. The moons were absent, but the swilling colors and erratic curls more than made up for the absence of solid light.

A growl cut through the silence but it was easily ignored as a gust of wind tangled her air like a spectre's hand. Her cheeks were rubbed raw by the cold air, but a heat in her coiled despite the temperature.

"Woman."

He had yet to leave her be, so stubborn and useless.

"I'll haul you down...if I have to say again. No one would think less of me for it."

She was, in a way more stubborn than the gruff man at her back, but intuition was one of her strong points. He wasn't fibbing with her, nor spewing out a baseless threat...and after her successful glares the last thing she needed was someone carrying her like a shipping crate down into the bowls and ruining everything. She knew better than to turn this small nuisance into a big problem...

The sound of his sudden, hurried steps brought a sneer to her face as she turned to stare at his dark form going still just a stones low away, obviously put out by her quick movement. Even in the dark the sight of his wringing fists was plain to see, along with the rise of his thick shoulders and tense, slightly hunched body ready and perhaps thoroughly expecting to go through with his warning. The man seemed to have a temper...

"I'll follow then..." she rolled the words on her tongue, pulling the fur cloak higher against her exposed neck.

A moment passed and he nodded to her; fingers unfurling with one curling at shoulder level to beckon her forth. She obliged without complaint, leaving the heavy darkness of the deck for the lantern lit cabin. A surly looking Nord gave her a leveled look before coiling thick worn rope over a bulging arm, he disappeared from view when she turned to take the first step down.

Rusty green skin caught her eye, a sheen of yellow from the hanging lantern highlighted it a color she'd not seen since...

The heavy looking sailor before her paused, perhaps not hearing her descending footsteps. Her eyes honed in on the slow, thick movement of his neck, sliding to the roughly stubbled cut of his jaw. Two thick, blunt tusks jutted from his lower lip; one chipped in an uneven and even more burly character of male expression. Green eyes, freckled with mossy yellow, glared up at her as if her stare was an insult of the highest caliber. More sharp teeth were exposed when he sneered and gave a clipped nod to follow before returning to his heavy stepped descent. It felt as though the boat was shaking with each of his steps.

This was a male. She felt her fingers itch to grab at his shoulder and pull him around to face her yet again, but they dug their nails into her pelted waist instead.

Something in her was enraptured like nothing else in this land had interested her. She'd yet to see another brother of Malacath and, she couldn't deny, he was a fine example indeed. Her imagination could not have painted a better portrait of him, even down to the unshaven chin and spider-web of scars on his left cheek. Books she had scoured could only provide her with expectations, and – she drew closer to take in the sheer size of him – he filled every one and then more.

Many innocent and personal questions welled up in her throat all at once; her fingers twitching yet again at her sides in an impatient manner to pull him aside and assail him with her queries. Why had she not seen another Orsimer yet? - were they held up in a province of Skyrim she'd not heard of? - and why did she find herself growing closer than personal space normally allowed. She knew of boundaries, but here did they apply any more? Mother had not mentioned how powerful a male of such size and tusk could effect her. There was nary a crease of fat on him, and the thin, salt-worn tunic tight around his chest proved the density of strength. Her insides ran giddy like when she'd been a pup, listening to Mother tell of such brawn.

As a man passed her by, carrying an array of cargo, she licked her dull teeth with distaste as he pinned her with an odd look. This male Orsimer before probably never received such looks of piety, not with his arsenal of teeth and tusk...nor with the horns upon his brow.

She'd not craved tusks of her own for some time now...his deadly ones were a strong reminder of what she had yet to receive. Would he even find her a worthy specimen without them? A fine pair of them would surly diminish the sickly pallor of her skin even in his eyes...and once he accepted her aesthetics, she knew he would enjoy the show of her strength. If only a Dragon would swoop down with flames asunder she would show him her nimble style in battle and he would find her worthy.

"What is your name?" she muttered, apparently so suddenly and close to his shoulder that her eyes caught him flinch before he turned to her glance. It was any wonder what he saw in her face, but it must have confused him greatly, for she watched as his upper lip twitched and his heavy brow furrow; showing her more of the strong lines in his face and edge of his teeth.

He looked away and still awaiting an answer, she followed until he paused at a oak-lain door and knocked three times in quick succession. The sensation of time slipping all too quickly grasped at her lungs – he was ignoring her.

You expect to leave me with your captain without giving a name? Do you not extend a courtesy to one of your own where there are so few?"

"You are crazed, woman," he groused with a hand grasping the old wood of the door frame with a vein bulging grip. He appeared angered and uncomfortable.

She worried the inside of her lip with keen eyes on him; staring at the creases between his eyes and sides of his nose as if the lines would grow into words of what she should say. Books did not help her this time, much like when she was caught within battle...perhaps courtship was much like fighting in this way. Mother had only said males were short-worded and better with a weapon than their mouths, but if their mouths looked as a weapon then what did that say about the credibility of Mother's words?

"Have I overstepped my boundaries?" she asked with a piercing gaze, trying to gather the minute changes in his features as she spoke.

Another sneer was her only answer, and a rough eyeing of her worth as though she'd changed color on him suddenly – she knew the manner of his stare, it was one of a hundred she'd received so far but this one seemed more judgmental than the others had been. He did not find her worthy...not even the Nords looked upon her with such distaste.

Her eyes narrowed in wonder despite the way his did in disarray. She took in the sight of thick stacks of muscles under the cotton tunic he wore - the scars and imperfections making him even more appealing. He looked to have survived many encounters; ones where others may have failed.

The door to the captains quarters opening did not catch her eye nor attention as she took in an inhale hoping to smell him, but all she could discern was the scent of sea and mead. The size of him continued to arouse her interest. Mother had spoken of males as broad as him with great affection and longing...she finally understood why in all it's primal glory.

His expression looked unnerved, despite the low lipped sneer as she rose a brow in question. A gruff sound drew her attention to the portly Nord with a red beard; an odd expression on his sea-faring face.

"Excuse me...miss," she stared at the Nord, unaffected as he continued, "if you would come inside." It was not a request, but a well made demand wrapped in the veil of a friendly invite.

When she turned quickly to demand a name from the Orsimer male for the final time, he was gone to replace three barrels of apples. Already the warm comfort he'd given her by mere presence alone was dissipating, much like her energy for conversation. Craving to find him and bask in the comfort of being with another of her kin nearly outdid her duty to follow in upon her agreement.

With a frown she nodded, gaze still upon the apples as the captain opened his door for her, "If I must..."

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><p>"<em>They do not grow because they are not meant to, child."<em>

"_Should I hunt further to the east then? - or perhaps I do not eat enough salmon, Children of the Sky says the Nords do not get their gleaming beards without the oils fro-"_

"_I told you to toss that book away. You are no Nord, thus you do not have use for it."_

_She swallowed her words of protest, resting her palms upon the wooden table with upset. Mother flipped a page with an annoyed gruff of breath before going quite; immersed in her own literature._

_Rain pounded upon the old roof above their heads. A bucket clicking with water that ran from a loose board above them was growing maddening as it nearly muted the crackle of the heating fire. Stew steamed in front of her but the previous ravenous appetite died as she touched her blunt teeth, staring at the drying leaves behind Mother._

"_What is the matter _now_?"_

_She looked up to see Mother still reading her book; lips tight against small tusks – she was bothered by her questions about the same things over and over... it was plain to see. Lying would be a fruitless effort, even if it was with well intentions to avoid an argument._

"_I...", she started, pausing when Mother gave her a hot black-eyed stare, "I feel..._inadequate._" When she saw nothing but given attention, she continued; tapping her nails upon the old wood. "My teeth are _flat_...my skin is..._dull_ and _sickly_. I bleed like you said, but nothing else and-"_

"_Your breasts have swelled...and you grow hair where you hadn't had it before. You kill...You have changed. That should be enough for now, Morn." - and that would be the final comment on the matter, she realized. Mother's attention drew to the scrawl written upon the books pages once more with little enthusiasm she'd seen burning before. She'd upset Mother, but...she did little else for her mood as of late._

"_Besides," Mother sighed, flipping a page, "Once you get your answers there will be more questions to replace the old..."_

_Rain kept falling and her unsatisfied questions still mounted, but her stew stopped steaming and with a greatly difficult amount of restrain, she filled her mouth with lukewarm broth besides the words she craved to ask again._

_Mother was right. One day she would have all her answers and then new ones would replace the old. For now...this would have to do._

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><p>"Thirsty?" the Nord asked with a raised bottle of unlabeled mead. She remained silent, staring ahead with little else but a thin-lipped expression. The cabin was unnaturally sparse aside from a rusted saber mounted behind his desk, and aside from the papers weighted down by a steel ingot, she would have guest the room a storage closet...without the storage...and a desk.<p>

"No," he answered for her, uncorking the bottle and taking a raw swill; some amber dribbles skimming down the coarse hair of his beard. It took a bite upon her tongue to hold in her disgust. He reeked of old musk and brine...or perhaps it was a stain in the cabin that assailed her nostrils.

"I'll have you know you are on an East Empire Trading vessel. Your lucky we found you and not some bandit barge..."

"You have questions?" she reminded in a shallow voice as he drank.

"Aye, that I do, lass. Not every night my watchman finds a _lady_ stranded on the ice like a vulnerable Horker calf. Even less that she has such a foul disposition to being rescued." His tone made her teeth grind – the sugar-coated, well worded, insults had their desired effect she was sure. The captain looked oddly amused for the moment before resting the bottle upon the desk and clasping his weary looking hands. "So the question remains. What were you doing on that berg all by your pretty lonesome?"

"Standing," she offered with little feigned truth, ignoring his witty comment. "That other Orsimer," she ventured, "what is his name?" Her tone switch quickly to a pleasant show as her snark dropped. Desperately, she wanted to know. She'd studied all the names from Mother's books; names hailing from certain strongholds, families, and lands. Though a name she could deduct how further to proceed with him.

"The bosun? He is well mannered for his kind I assure you_._" he appeared baffled at her question but did not ask her why her interest lay in the males direction, surly it was obvious enough.= to even a simpleton.

"Bosun?" she muttered under a breath. The term was familiar but she could not place it, not while her patience grew thin and frayed in the stuffy hold below deck – tight spaces always unnerved her.

"Hm...yes. You need a strong one like that to man the mechanics of this vessel. He responds find to that title...has he made a comment inappropriate?"

Once more she ignored him, "He does have a name. What is it?" she groused finally, insulted at his dithering assumptions when her question had yet been answered.

"Durz'gash," he answered before taking another drink of mead, "Never know if I'm pronouncing it right..."

White replaced the hue of her lips as she thinned them out; thinking back upon the books and the names and their regions. She gave the captain no response as her eyes narrowed. A strong name is was, but without a family name it couldn't be placed...

He seemed non pulsed at her air, as if expecting such a reaction, "I won't have you thrown over board for your ungrateful air, lass, but you'll add an extra pair of hands to my crew when we hit docks, which shouldn't be long now. Solitude is already on the horizon..." he looked thoughtful for a brief time; a thumb touching the bottle of mead before a sudden wistful smile pulled at the weight of his beard

"Consider it payment for saving you from a perishing freeze. Now_._..help yourself to a few apples if you're hungry. I'm sure if you managed to _smile_ one of the men may offer you some dried goods, though I have my doubts your able at all."

She sneered and pulled her arms in a lock across her abdomen with annoyance. More negative body language wasn't needed, but she gave it nonetheless. A wave of his wrinkled hand dismissed her; pressing her attention to the ajar door with naught but a short look. There was no telling her twice, she rose – the chair scratching obstinately upon the old floor boards – and removed herself from the warm cabin with little but a frown. It had been a useless trip if not for the Orsimer, whom she now craved to find.

At least Mother had always been truthful when she chose to speak, and from what she was told most Orsimer were the same. Such folly was saved for other races while they relied on trickery to get by as much as they did the sword, if not more so. The inhabitants of this land confounded her with their many layers of emotions, cloaks and truths. It was hard to tell when they were jesting or being honest, no matter how many of their books she'd read...it always left her feeling vaguely humiliated and simple. What did he expect of her? - to either give him every detail of her purpose on that island of ice or tell a tale? - certainly not.

She plucked a blushing apple from the barrel as she drew up the tight stairs, only giving a brief thought to the missing Orsimer male in her ire before catching sight of blemishes to her right. Small tally's were cut into the panel walls, exposed by the lanterns light – dozens of them told of long journeys and dull days at sea, reminding her of her small row boat sinking slowly as her feet chilled on that iceberg.

It truly was luck that this ship had found her at all...especially without a flame to catch their eye. A thank you wouldn't have hurt her pride...not too much at least.

Bells rang and a horn blew. A man high above called out how close they were to the docks as she avoided two men hurrying below decks.

Night renewed the vigor in her bones as the cold seeped into the exposed slips between the fur and leather over her form. Fresh sea, smoke and distant snow filled her senses, banishing the previous scent of the filthy sea captain, bringing a smile to her lips as she shucked a thick bite off her apple. It's crisp, sharp tangy sweetness gave her pause as she savored. Fruit always gave her short-lived bliss – so much more delicious than the thick pastries Mother had cooked.

In the distance – under the still erratic lights in the sky – a mountain like arch swallowed up the ship in a sea of darkness far greater than any the night could ever bring. Black, deeper than the bottom of the sea filled her ears with cotton and her skin with chills. There was a city resting on that arch – and she watched with great interest as her neck ached at the angle.

The apple was eaten with gusto, as the vessel curved as if making ready to dock – all the while she watched the city as it sat on the open arch with awe unhidden. Her back found comfort against the pulpit; a knee brought up while the other splayed out as she took in the sight above her. Skyrim was not without its beauty, she would never deny that very fact...

"Aye! Woman!"

She turned, staring past the mast to a gathering of burly looking Nords, one holding a bright lantern at face height. He curled a hand at her, gesturing her with a hurried swipe to come near. The last bite of the apple set in her belly happily as she tossed the core over, accepting their call with a frown. One of them smiled, an older looking man with peppered stubble – the rest eyed her with suspicion before the lantern carrying fool gave her a poke in the shoulder, "Captain says you're at our disposal, but you're a little short aren't you?" There was little of the venom she'd expected, just an air of disappointment before he grumbled, handing the lantern to the one who smiled.

"I am _not_ short. I am _nimble_," she seethed low between her teeth.

It was as though they did not hear her correct him, "Come on then, lass. We'll find _something_ for you to do. Though, can't think of much with those small shoulders._.._", he trailed under his breath as she followed along with the other two, both now wearing amused smiles as she kept her curses within a feral snarl.

It was not her fault she was small...or theirs that they were born too stupid to think insulting her was appropriate, but she'd press their patience until they were red-faced...at the very least...then, she would find that Durz'gash and introduce herself properly, just as she'd been taught.

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><p>As I said before. I have much of it written out, but this is a new bit of lore for me and if I've slipped up anywhere do let me know. Reviews of what is liked andor hated will be fed and cared for by my own two hands. As always, thanks for reading.


	2. You Should Leave She Beast

Chapter two in on board. I'd like to thank crackedradio for the helpful review. Hopefully the dialogue flows smoother in this chapter than it had in the first. All the alert notices for this are well and good, so thank you readers.

Going to have a couple views from Durz'gash this time.

Don't own Bethesda, just these two characters.

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><p>Expressions that of an Orsimer. Walk and attitude thus was quite similar, and even the way she rolled her words was as if she'd listened only to the curt talk of Orc tongue, but she looked nothing the part. Small and lacking any real bite to her bark, she was unappealing. He watched her follow Adding with a toothsome sneer fit only for those with tusks to make it look threatening, on her she just looked like a rabbit trying to scare off a wolf; endearing in a way, but more bitterly amusing.<p>

She disappeared with the Nords, looking around cautiously; searching the crowd of gathered men as shipments were unloaded by the armfuls. A cargo of steel ingots rested hard on his shoulder, securing the load with fingers curled in the ropes tied tight around it's sides. For him, the load was merely heavy. One of the many fit Nords would manage the crate no doubt, but why would they struggle with it when he could unload it with nary a bead of sweat dripped. The small little human was long gone by the time a sniveling jab from a fellow shipmate drew his attention back to work. She as as distracting as any oddity, unfortunately.

The woman thought herself as vicious as an Orsimer, did she? - well...she was in for a rude awakening when and if she made it to the city gates...such attitude wouldn't be tolerated even from a smooth-faced woman like herself.

"Derg!" a short Nord caught his attention down the dock, "Take this down as well, would you?"

A tight, un-planked crate of oil was hoisted up on his shoulder – the Nord letting out a grunt as he shoved it up most of the way – and, like a dedicated worker, he took it without question, grasping the two crate on either of his shoulders with a tight breath before continuing on his way. Any other bastard and he would have pushed him into the barnacle ridden waters below, but the Nord – Yori - called out a loud 'thanks' and scampered off to grab another shipment with green glee.

A deep, and almost pleasurable burn grew in his shoulders, arms and chest as the weight of the crates began to burden his muscles. This pleasant warmth would wane into strain soon enough, as was common, but the promise of pay and subsequently, mead, was enough of a fire under his ass to take each stride with a wider birth.

Nords, Bretons, and more Imperials than what one would normally find in Skyrim, flooded the now narrow walkway. Tall, packed shipments on one end and dark water on the other; a cold threat for anyone who bumped into the wrong person. Avoiding the obstacle of men, crates and poor attitudes was the most tedious of the work...and the twists and turns with both arms full and snug around his own cargo only tired his back and abdomen as well.

After too long at sea, between ports, this was the last and sometimes the most loathsome task.

While shifting past an Imperial with a noisy crate of chickens, he caught sight of the little woman atop the fifteen crate-tall wall, stringing rope that was tossed up at her with vigor. Her small, mousy face scrunched with each tug; cheeks flushed to expose the swiped marks of orange war paint under her eyes even with the dim light. Those flat teeth that she bared like daggers peeked from her lips as she tightened the flung rope, securing the crates together into neat stacks.

He knew better than to stare while pandering between men with his arms full, and the misstep was something he deserved no doubt. Dragging his feet was a habit he'd not had since his first voyage, knowing well that loose planks were common place, but that knowledge mattered little when his attention was unwittingly drawn away. The worst of it was that she caught eyes with him just before he stumbled, nearly loosing his cargo if it wasn't for the wooden pole holding a fitted lantern.

A post used for hanging rope hit him in the gut, shooting a wire of pain down through his left thigh. The damned woman was already causing him trouble...

A hand grabbed at his tunic, pulling him upright and disappearing – a friendly, mysterious hand that was fairly ordinary between the group of traders, sailors, and galley-workers. He didn't dare look up at the woman. Humiliation burned above his brow as a strangled growl escaped through his teeth. The first crates weren't even secured and he was already loosing his damn mind.

* * *

><p>Another string of rope was flung up, slapping loud beside her feet as she watched the thickly stacked Orsimer right himself with the help of a passing Breton, and continue on out of sight into a maze of shipments. Seeing him before, against the old captain had not done him justice. Amidst the sea of crates and humans, he stuck out like a fire in the nigh; all dark skin and hard, bulging lines. Her lips pressed tight, stifling the urge to hop down and corner him in the dark for answers.<p>

"Did you get that one, lass!"

The rough call below her got her moving, she grasped the rope and tugged; her answer an act rather than a word.

Their so called 'task' for her was fit for a sewer rat, if that. Any weakly built creature could catch rope and tie it; hopping from one stack of cargo to the next...repeating the process. She strung the rope tight with a snort of breath and tied it tight, stepping over wide to the next stack – all the while keeping an eye on the stream of heads and crates below, waiting for the Orsimer's unique build to show up among the pale skin and common hair.

Her work must have cause her to miss him, for the next time she saw him, his arms were full once more and his direction was the same as last time. The green eyes did not find hers again...nor did they the next dozen times he passed.

A bell rang sharp as the men below started to thin out in numbers, but the ropes kept coming up and she kept tying them even after her hands had started to burn from the wiry fibers.

"Two more!"

She growled, hopping to the next stack; catching the next rope, "What an utter bore..."

The last rope went as easily as the rest had, and with a kick of her heel she nudged the tip of her boots into the gap between boards, climbing down the tall stack with ease Mother had instilled tree climbing in her at a young age, and this was no different. There was even a brief feeling of pride as the slightly impressed and baffled faces of the three Nords watched her descend; landing on two feet with a blank stare.

"Not bad, lass...You look like a waif, but I'd say you can hold your own as well as any deck hand," his pat on the back was a chummy affront that should have annoyed her...but...the anger never grew above an ember. Still though, a deck hand? - she could sneer easily at that one, though they seemed to enjoy the look more than anything by the chuckles and the smiles.

"I'd say the lady deserves a flagon or two."

"Aye, a meal too. Look at those cheeks_,_ could cut rock bread on 'em"

She ignored them as they followed her down the now nearly deserted walkway. The sound of the licking water under the narrow dock was a comforting sound oddly enough, despite the smelly company of the three men, their stale jokes and carefree jests.

They had reason to be happy she supposed with a look ahead of her. Their work was done until they set sail again. A steady, predictable job like this had its benefits. Work, get paid, drink, relax and work once more until the process eventually ended with death or a comfy little farm on the cliff-side. Mother came to mind – the farm and the cliff also stirred up old memories as the starry night sky, with all those colorful lights, greeted her with their wispy curls, reminding her of how stuffy the inside of the trading hub had been.

"What do you say, lass?" a hand landed on her shoulder, gently pushing her out of her locked gaze with the sky, "A drink. On _us_ lot?" The middle-aged man with the stubble and the sappy smile looked down at her, cheerfully awaiting her acceptance.

"Just the one?" she sniped sarcastically with a miniscule smile. She'd spoken little, which was more than she'd conversed with others - Nord and the like unless it'd been necessary for survival. These three didn't seem so terribly troublesome, and who was she to decline a free drink if it was offered?

Another clap on her back turned her smile to a sneer, but neither of the three caught wind, "That's the spirit_._ You play your hand right with ol' Fraki over here and he might buy you the whole cistern." The one called Fraki gave her a modest smile – the scuff of his beard making the movement seem large and warm.

"I suppose," she muttered, staring wearily at the smiling Nord before walking with them as two started to laugh and sing a song unlike any she'd heard Mother sing to her – a male tune full of burl and vigor. They were still boggling and odd – in manner, look and custom – but to be accepted despite her tendency to shun, was at least something...and though her mind wandered to the Orsimer male and his heaving arms and sweat drenched brow, she found herself enjoying the company as she had not expected too.

They hiked up the steep trail, littered with cobblestones and assorted rock – all the while the men never shut up about one thing or another and she was happy to remain silent through their chat of women, work and war.

Guards passed by with blazing torches; one pausing and give them a warning look before mumbling something unintelligible before going about his rounds.

The city was heavy with stone, tall and busy with men she recognized from the docks. Vendors were out with torches and lanterns lit, while a bard played as he strolled along the streets. Dressed up women laughed and soldiers conversed with citizen and fellow man alike. She saw no Orsimer, nor anything but man...even Elf seemed absent...and suddenly, she felt all too small in the sea of humans. The feeling was not unfamiliar, but greater now that the the density of peoples had grown triple from what she was accustomed to. Panic rose as the Nords beside her ushered her into a tavern with chuckles, unknowing of the terror rising in her gut like searing minerals from a geyser.

* * *

><p>"<em>They said there are Orsimer down in the village though...how could you not want to see them? Warriors...Males! When was the last time <em>you_ were witness to a male, Mother?"_

"_Morn. We are fine where we are." But that was not a good enough answer for her, not anymore. It wasn't even a good answer when the last trader had said he'd seen children in the village, why did Mother think it would have been a proper answer now when the children of her wishes had turned into Orsimer; male Osrimer! She'd been caught trying to dispel the ache in her body herself not last moon cycle. Did that not tell Mother she was ready yet to coheres with a male?_

_Like an insolent child she pressed her lips out, feeling the need to scream arise and fall, continuously growing closer to exploding in a tantrum all too un befitting a female of her age and intellect. Her body had known exactly what it craved for too long, and now that the bane of her desire was but a days travel...there was nothing that could stop her from going out herself. No threats could keep her in bed any longer._

"_I will see the males, Mother..." she let out like a kettle starting to expel steam. Uncaring to the pot about to overflow, Mother gave her that infamous blank stare; daring her to do as she'd just threatened. This was the moment in her life where she either caved in under Mothers rules, or proved she was ready to take care of herself._

_The silence decayed her words before they could come out; her mouth simply flapping as the steam ran cold and her courage grew equally nonexistent. It was her moment to defy and prove her independence, and yet...she let her knees go, sat down before Mother at the table and didn't move until sunrise._

* * *

><p>The blasted little woman was inescapable.<p>

Just a stones throw away she stood aside Adding and his nephews, seemingly emotionless if not for the slight patina of sweat and shifting eyes exposing her. She looked frightened; like an outnumbered warrior she seemed to size up each and every man, woman and...then she caught his eyes again in her own and he felt like she'd flung something scolding in his face. The almost catching terror in her eyes dwindled and by Malacath's right eye she smiled...at him.

Gaining her attention like that was asking for trouble, but not only did she smile, she completely ignored Adding's youngest nephew asking her a question – no doubt what she wanted to drink – as she made her way through the crowd straight towards him.

The cold bottle of mead seemed to warm as his fist wrung around the glass; tensing as she reached him with a quickness no human should have to get closer to an Orc. Surly, this did not look good...

"You have been paid I assume," her strong voice spoke, whether it was a question or statement he was not certain – either way he found himself nodding shortly until she was suddenly sitting down besides him, making his neck stiffen as well as the rest of him.

"I will trade you a garnet if you purchase me a beverage then," she said with her back straight and hands upon the edge of the small table, " though it may turn into_ a few_ beverages," she added almost ruefully, while pushing a finger to the candle tray beside his death-grasped bottle.

For a moment he paused to look at her small, pale hand; flat upon the table aside his bottle-grasping, dark-skinned mitt. Ugly and pretty...a perfect example right in front of him...

What was there to say than 'scoot to another table' or 'scram'? - could she not see they were staring at her...and at him. But no, no he said nothing, just stared at her as he shouldn't have with the bottle feeling more and more fragile in his fist. "I will take your silence as a yes." - and with that he watched her hold out her hand as if he'd drop a septim into the cup of her palm just like that, and...

...he did.

It didn't even dawn on him until she was well across the tavern that he'd just given the little thing his coin...and how terrible it must have looked to the watching crowd.

Only a few eyes remained on him, the rest that'd been looking were turned to the bar as she filled thin arms with bottles of mead – her Nord friends still looking almost bemusedly...amused.

"I purchased the lot," she motioned to her full arms, bending forth to rest them noisily upon the table, one twirling on it's side and falling before he righted it with a quick hand.

Confusion still filled him more than his second mead did, but it didn't matter how much he glared at her to explain herself, she did nothing more than press the glimmering garnet on the table before him as she uncorked her mead as if she had child's fingers.

"I can not except this." he growled, shoving the small shiny gem back to her with one thick finger.

"I am merely trading with you, as I would with any vendor. There is noth-"

"Woman..." he could not contain his growl despite the curious, judgmental eyes on them both. She gave him a side-ways glance after finally un-corking her mead. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked with barely enough control to not hiss it. Those amber-laced, brown eyes stared, then proceeded to gaze about the room as if she were surveying how many enemies lay within a dark cave.

"Retreating from them...They're ways are not bad, I have found, but there are too many," she pandered a look at him, not making eye contact but frowning enough to make him feel a shame as if she'd been staring right into his own, "I wonder how you do not feel the same way." The smooth space between her brows furrowed and the line under her eyes bunched as if he had confused her greatly.

Her query was a valid one, but not something he would answer her. Instead of saying something he'd regret, he simply gave a heavy exhale and clanked his bottle with her own – a signal of his defeat before glugging down the rest of the warming brew.

She didn't look away even after he'd started on the fresh one she'd brought him. If she wanted a conversation she was in for disappointment – he didn't do that sort of frivolous behavior, and certainly not with a little woman like her.

"Mother didn't have horns," she peered up at his thorny brow, "do you keep them sharp? - do they not grow dull? I noticed the chip on your left tusk, _did that hurt_?" she kept on asking and he just let the rim of his bottle fall from his lips as he gawked at her running mouth.

"Mother said her tusks hurt when they came in, bothered her, worse than when she delivered me...but I find that hard to believe. They don'tlookpainful," she paused and he blinked slowly down at her open expression. Was it him or had she leaned in closer? - certainly he had not felt the warmth of her breath before.

He dared a look again at the tavern to see two thick Nords from the docks staring; a rash of indignation over their faces. They glared as if his hands had been on her breasts. Her insistent attention was ruining his reputation of not having one...and it angered him.

"Well," then her lips pursed gently at him, quelling his rage a brief moment, "they are quite deadly looking actually...and _impressive._" The sly little way her mouth turned and her narrowed eye contact suggested she was...trying to exchange flirtatious banter. Who did she think she was? - throwing herself at him like this is the middle of a damned tavern. She think she was some mighty Orsimer bitch?

She gave a bare-toothed smile, like a courting Orsimer. Then it made sense...and he felt the simpleton. The obvious gait she took, way she pronounced words and comments she made – his Pa would have been humiliated for him for being such just a slow-minded pup. She, for whatever damnable and naif reason, thought she was an Orc...

* * *

><p>Thank you as always for reading. For writers, reviews really do mean a lot, even if it's just a 'awesome' or 'hate it because (insert reason)' comment. If you have the time, please do let me know what you liked andor disliked.


	3. I Offer You My Trust

Here is Chapter three, trying to add some depth into Durz'gash's character before we take him on a wild ride. It's hard to find a good amount of lore about the Orcs in Elderscrolls, so I'm going to be taking a bit of the empty stuff from nomadic traditions since Orsimer don't have a land of their own in Tamriel, and tend to scatter about the different lands as they see fit.

Anyways, on with the story.

Don't own Bethesda, just these two characters.

* * *

><p>"Impressive?"<p>

She nodded as he appeared to press the word through his teeth, eyeballing her cryptically like she were to launch a dagger between his ribs at any moment. He looked almost offended at her praise, but...was that not how Mother said the males played? - they were stubborn and cold at first, then once coaxed properly they would go as far as to bare their naked chest for your killing blow.

A shadowed crease grew around his eyes, exposing their brilliant color, though she supposed it was meant to deter her in some form.

"Mother spoke of Males such as you, but I had not seen it until tonight," his look did not change, but she felt less uncomfortable in his hard gaze than with the smiling Nords, "You are _beautiful_."

He did not look at her after that, turning his eyes away and searching the table under his hands like they were pages in a book rather than worn looking growth rings. At that comment she must have crossed the line. Males did not wish to be called beautiful...only females right? – but then, what did the Males like to be called? She could not think of the word, though her brow furrowed painfully as she hunted the words in her memory; failing still.

"I did not wish to offe-"

"Forget it," he cut in roughly, his throat sounding clogged and used. "Women do not speak to me often. Not used to it...and _conversing_ is not a talent of mine..."

"Nor mine," she whispered – a warmth creeping where mead would have crept, though she'd not taken a sip yet, being too engrossed in worming all her quandaries from him. It was her turn to look away, suddenly feeling submissive under his stare. Even though he was, as he'd just said, not one for words, she found his company more than just pleasing in the way she had hoped to. Being in the presence of a Male was suppose to be many things, but the physical effects of such things still felt overpowering at times.

She craved to grasp at her cheeks – to feel if they were growing a licking flame from the heat that spread like wild fire, but he spoke suddenly, breaking her creeping hands.

"What did your Ma call you?" he asked it so awkwardly that she nearly asked him why her presence turned him into a stuttering maid, but she bit that snide remark down, knowing he could take her neck and crush it with his tusks if he wished. She'd read so in a story when just a pup...of how, when properly insulted, they could prove themselves dominate by ripping out necks and crushing bone.

"Morn when I did good. Morn'udes when I did...bad," she frowned, "but I rarely did bad _with _Mother."

His jaw seemed to tighten, his lips falling before going tight around his tusks – she knew that look all too well. It was a look Mother gave when she'd said something foolish but amusing.

The wideness of his chest appeared to shake, emitting a deep rumble like that of distant thunder, maybe a chuckle? She could not be certain, but the side of his mouth turned up for the barest of moments before going lax once more, "You did bad when she had her back turned," he said it as a fact, not a question.

Before she could answer he was already making that thunderous sound once more, distracting her terribly, "Don't look so insulted. Rebellion is common with our..." he appeared to pause, blink and stare at her in a manner most odd, "...kind."

A streak of energy took her; chest puffing out and lungs filling to bellow out her gathered knowledge when opportunity stuck, "But that _isn't_ true. Historical accounts say we as a race are honorable to the death; pledging life and limb for our mates, family and beliefs. Even in those stories purely fiction condone our strength and laurels to what we hold dear. Mother spoke of my Pa much in the same way, and when the Empire summoned him he left wit-"

"Not _every_ Orc has something dear to them," he interrupted with a sneering frown, "sometimes we just want coin and company."

Her mouth struggled to close as she watched him drink down his bottle of mead; his throat working the brew down quickly. Bitterness still hung in the air from the way he spoke, almost as though once again, she had insulted him. Not for the first time that night, she felt naïve to many a normally common thing. Reading only gave her so much to go on, and for all she knew Mother had not known everything...perhaps not even a lot about themselves.

Durz'gash did not speak further to her, and she did not him. The silence grew stagnant and in her desperation she searched the crowds for the friendly faced Nords, which she did not find – only confused looks staring back at her. Once more she felt alone and imprisoned, giving new breath to her previous panic.

"What were you doing on that berg?" He asked and she grasped at her arm; exposing the crowd to her cornered body language without thinking. She did not look at him when answering, "Standing."

A dismissive snort gave sequel to a grumble, "I _did_ say I wasn't good for talk."

"You did."

More silence leaked forth like the nerves soaking into her skin. Even with the tavern lively and loud, she heard that hallow ringing in her ears that only accompanied the deadly quiet. If it wasn't for the mounting phobia, she may have been searching her mind for more to ask the grumbling Male at her side, but...a cold sweat started to form on her bare brow, and a sheen of gooseflesh sprouted on her arms.

"I was the one who saw you in the ice. In the dark..." she heard him say without any begrudging nudge; without her even looking at him, "...you know. Thought you were a Siren..." The look on his face when she turned to him was enough to dispelled most of her scare – his eyes were narrowed, but warm and focused on nothing but her. The smallest of twitches caught the corner of her lips, a smile threatening to surface as he grunted low; clearing his throat thickly. Suddenly, he was the one that looked nervous, staring back at the mead dwarfed in his fists.

"What is Siren?" she asked, scooting closer as sneakily as possible while his eyes were diverted to the side.

"They're pretty women that act as stranded victims...Sailors die trying to save them," he looked almost annoyed before taking a long drink from the lip of his bottle, " but they're not real in_ that_ way. Just teases to bring you into a berg or a whirlpool. They look different from shore to shore."

"Have you ever seen one?" she asked once more – the hunt for answers bringing her closer to him without knowing her limit.

A green eye looked her over wearily as raucous laughter started from somewhere in the tavern. Whatever it was he was thinking, he answered her regardless, "No. Just stories."

"Then how do you know they're real...or not real?"

"I don't. _They're stories_." he reiterated as if she were a child not understanding something all too simple.

She arched a brow at his withheld appearance; sharp, glassy eyes, tight lips over those broken tusks and a pinched brow making him look like an offensive strategist. He had to be making a yarn with her. Stories were real or not real...not just stuck to one definite category. As if he saw her painful confusion, he snorted through his nose before apparently relenting, "They are myths...and superstitions."

That was an explanation she could absorb and accept, and with the smallest creases of a smile she took a drink of her own mead; savoring the first drop like she'd not had the rich, honeyed taste in too too long. Mead always sat light but warm in her belly, and the feeling came just as expected with a contented sigh. "You thought I was luring you all to a freezing, wet dead?"

"At first," a shrug of his shoulders drew her eyes to the size of him for the fourth time since sitting besides him, " the closer we got the more you just looked like a wet woman in distress..."

"_Distress_?" she nearly spat the word; filled with almost mock annoyance...but only almost. He gave her an odd look, one she'd only ever seen on Mother; a scolding look, like he was trying to drill in how little she fooled him.

"My boat sunk," she said instead of following her normal route of defending herself...or insulting him.

"That's what I told Captain Graki...how else would your pelts have been dry? He wanted to leave you to swim back." He drank and she watched the empty bottle make an empty sound as it slapped on the table.

She searched him cryptically for any signs of falsehoods. For someone who had been, up until now, cold towards her, she hadn't thought he'd be the one to aid in her rescue.

Durz'gash seemed to do the same to her in her thoughtful silence, reaching a heavy hand in his pocket. A few septims chimed on top of the table with his grunt: the timbre of a bears. "Are you hungry?" he asked while one stray coin rolled on it's edge before coiling flat on it's head.

Without thinking she gave a steady nod, feeling but thankfully not hearing her gut whine against empty insides. He looked away for a second at her heavy stare, "The barmaid doesn't...approve of me," a guilty look crossed his face before he looked back at her, "would you fetch me a mead...and whatever your eating?" It was obvious how detestable it was for him to ask her, and somehow she felt honored to grab at his coin, rise and fetch him more mead and food – an eager look on her face and a less-than-becoming quickness to her step.

If she kept him full and partially inebriated, perhaps he'd continue speaking with her.

So with a new vigor, even greater than the one she'd come in with, she hopped up to the bar with coin in her fist and a smile that couldn't even be broken by the sour expression of the blond barmaid as she ordered as much food and mead as the coin could get her.

* * *

><p><em>A cold snap gave steam to the freshly exposed gloss of red – the fallen boar's hind leg still twitched inanimately with each deep slice, separating skin and muscle quickly. Every moment was precious. Every cut perfect, and yet...<em>

"Do not _rend the veins Morn'udes." Mother reminded dryly over her shoulder – too close to be anything but nagging. She ruined her lower lip, keeping such rude retorts to herself as she angled her knife around the curve of a ruddy hip, pulling back the flap of furry hide with bloody fingers._

"_You're getting blood on the fur."_

_Like a chastised child, she felt any pride from her kill slowly wash away with each unhappy comment. Lately nothing she did pleased Mother, always staring at her with unclouded disappointment and mild disgust. The boar at her feet was growing cool in the cold air as the moments waned. The twitching had ceased and the small gloom of steam was all but cleared. No sounds of approval for striking a boar as large as her were granted, nor talk of what supper they'd make of him, just displeased grunts and short peeved silences._

_Alone, on the hunt, her hand never shook around the hilt of her Pa's dagger. Only with Mother scrutinizing every movement did she feel like she'd done the first time she'd skinned a carcass; clumsy and green._

_With a huff she opened the separated hide over the grassy ground, like the curls of a scroll as she took the edge of her knife to the tender meat of the flanks. At her side Mother laid out tanned leathers with little but a miffed noise. She slapped the cut portions of meat then and there as she always did, knowing full well that the cuts were less than adequate for anyone who knew the proper ways to cut an animal. Mother said nothing; worse than when she chastised, while the boar lost it's girth one hunk of flesh at a time._

_The meat was tied and slung in a sack, another sheet of leather lain out to encase the run of intestines, liver, stomach, kidneys and thick sheets of fat. The heart she left as Mother had said earlier on their prowl. It was the first day of the new moon, and it was tradition to leave the giving beast it's soul._

"_Don't touch it." Mother hissed as her thumb grazed the bulbous heart, wanting to touch it before leaving it to the hungry munch of the wolves that no doubt were stalking close from the heavy stink of blood in the thick twilight air._

"_Apologies...Mother..." she muttered, taking the hide and dragging it out from under the dressed boar – the bare carcass flipping on it's side in a sound of both 'crunch' and 'slop'. Mother made another unsatisfied noise before stringing the heavy sack over her neck and under her shoulder. The weight was substantial, but this was part of her duty, and Mother had to see that she was capable firsthand. Seeing her come home with meat and supplies was one thing, watching her daughter kill, dress and carry home their sustenance was another trial all together; a test._

_A daughter of Malacath had to be skilled in all acts of survival – she could not rely on anyone but herself._

"_At home you will make yourself better clothes..." she glanced up to see Mother staring with that sour turn of her lips at her worn hunting shawl. It had grown small on her frame over the many past seasons, as well thin and pocked with various holes. Mother's tumultuous eyes turned to the hide strung over her shoulder. "It is time you learn to sew anyhow. I will cook while you work, Morn..."_

_Silence followed as she smiled meekly, looking to the ends of the worn path. The translucent moon was growing thicker as the last of the sun's rays died past the horizon. _

"_You did well, child." - and that was all she had to hear for her smile to stretch wide, and her heart to soar. She had passed her test._

* * *

><p>Her slight, short frame bobbed expertly around the thick Nords by the bar; one eyeing her backside casually before turning to the rest of the tavern. An itch manifested in her chest – unreachable – at the sight, but it vanished quick enough as he clasped hand on the table.<p>

The barmaid, Milly, gave him another underhanded look from around the girls short-haired head. The disgusted look would be there at least until the next time he found himself in Skyrim. Women didn't forget things easily, especially not when they involved transgression by an Orc. Still, she'd been the one curious, and who was he to withstand a loose woman with a curiosity? The shunning was nothing abnormal, but the reasons for it, even to him, seemed childish. If the woman had anyone to be bitter with then it was herself...

An Imperial soldier's stare ran hot on his face, but when he turned to look the thin lipped-sneer turned up in a fake smile. They were tolerant of him, even kind to his face, but he was no fool – they despised him, as did all no matter where he was.

No doubt they'd be keeping an eye on him as he conversed with the small Woman. No one trusted an Orc around a woman, especially not one that bore the old bandit brands on his wrists. War paint he could scrub off and did, but the scars would always remind the more-conscious man of what he'd been and what he'd most likely done.

"Roast and milk biscuits," Morn came upon him with a heavy plate, piled with layers of meat and crumbled breads growing soggy from the drippings, "...and mead."

She had the bottles hugged to her breasts with one arm, forcing a crease of supple flesh to show through the fur shawl tied at her neck – the sight gave him a moment of pause. Normally it was easy to ignore the barely clad bodies of tavern wenches and port women, but it seemed, with her, that the less flesh she showed the more interesting what little he saw was. Supple as it was, he turned his eyes away as she sat besides him, unaware.

For a small woman she was acceptable looking, perhaps sweet on the eye but not beautiful...at least not with filthy smudges under her eyes and the crop of unwashed hair that stuck to her forehead. She smelt of brine as well, something he found too often while seeing and doing un-lovely things to find the smell at all nice.

There was only the one plate, which made him weary. The looks had grown less severe, but they came and left at the sight of them still. She did not seem to mind the prospect of eating from the same plate as him, nor with only the one fork. He watched her tear into a stringy hunk of meat, swallowing fat and skin like he'd not seen a woman do before. There was no delicate bites, or hands-over-mouth-delicacy, and he found himself smirking at the rare sight. She looked like a woman, but she acted the Orc in ever way.

"I..." she began, then appeared to realize her mouth was full and swallowed thickly with a gasp that was _almost_ becoming, "I wish to hire you."

He took a bite of meat with his fingers, chewed, swallowed and aimed for a pinch of soaked bread before pausing as her words sunk in fully. Since he first saw her he'd known she was an odd one, perhaps crazy, but this only labeled her stupid to him. She was looking at him thoughtfully, taking nibbles from a flaky biscuit as if she were waiting patiently for his answer.

What was he to say now? He'd fallen into a rather dangerous comfort while exchanging frivolous words, and now she seemed even more comfortable, especially to say such a serious thing. There was no tip-toeing around for her, he could see that now. His nostrils flared as he uncorked, what must have been his fourth mead, with gusto.

Still unable to look at her, he growled low before drinking half the sweet brew down, hoping the coming fog would ease his poor condition.

"You know nothing of me, Woman, not even a name," he replied in short work, almost in a threatening manner. How was she so confident he was not a former rapist, murderer and theif? - or did those things not bother her?

"Durz'gash is your name. I asked your captain, who said you were strong and 'kind enough'...what ever he meant by that." He did not know whether to insult her or remain silent.

"I don't need someone pleasant though," she continued while fiddling with her own bottle of mead, "just strong and capable. Having a fellow Orsimer by my side would be enough of the pleasantries." There was a brief smile before it tightened as she uncorked her brew.

"I am not used to carrying coin, but I have means to pay by gems and valuables. You can trade those for your reusable coin..._I'm certain._"

"I already have a job," it was all that came to mind. He couldn't form a cross word or leave her alone at the table in mislaid offense. The woman may have been crazed, but she meant no harm by it. Thinking she was an Orc was an uncomfortable thought, and if he even entertained attending her on whatever chore she was running, her misplaced identity would make things even more difficult than if she'd just been some normal woman.

"But you have the arms of a warrior...not the ones I see on the rest of your shipmates. Surly, you used to fight," she leaned in like before, as though he spoke in hushed tones and subsequently needed to be unbearably close to hear his answers.

"Orc's are built differently than normal Human and Mer...you should know this," it took too much to even speak to her on matters of race let alone what it would be like to deny the fact – right along with her – that she was merely a Human with an Orc's brain.

"I've never seen a Male Orsimer until you..." she confessed whilst avoiding his eyes, as if suddenly she were embarrassed. "Why not let me buy you a bed for the night. Sleep on it, and tell me in the morn? I will pay you, and what treasures we happened across I will split with you. I have found much in just the short time I've been here."

The temptation was raw as his mind conjured memories of gold, blood and weak women, all at the destruction and find of his blade. Her deal was hard to spit on, for anyone, let alone one who knew the pleasures of travel and battle. There were many flaws in her offer though – none having to do with her, but with him. He'd not held a sword in his hand for many seasons, nor had he killed anyone in that amount of time. Darkness crept on him as he remembered the pleasure he'd found in such barbaric activities. He didn't want that...but too hide from his flaws on a ship did little for his honor either...

She was right, he'd have to think about it...

"I'll sleep on it," he agreed begrudgingly, watching her hold in a grin as her attention was drawn back to the plate. He watched her, drank and let his mind take him to the span of possibilities; both fraught with sin and redemption. If he said yes, she may live to regret giving him such a seductive offer.

* * *

><p>Thank you as always for reading what I expel as writing. If you find the time, a review would warm my heart.<p>

I'm falling in love with the orcs of Skyrim like I just couldn't in Oblivion or Morrowind. Do let me know if I'm doing them any justice so far. I'm adding a bit of stereotypes to Duz'gash, but hey - sterotypes exist for a reason, and I want to make him difficult to love in the traditional sense.

I do, also, always fear turning my female creations into Mary Sues. Please, if this starts happening, call me out on it.


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